


Don't Be Dead II - The Gravedigger

by JayEz



Series: Don't Be Dead [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF!John, Buried Alive, Kidnapping, M/M, Sherlock&Lestrade bonding time, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/pseuds/JayEz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are not talking about the Moment. So, when Lestrade asks Sherlock to help them find the Gravedigger, a kidnapper who buries his victims alive and leaves them to die if the ransom isn’t paid, the consulting detective is glad to have a distraction.<br/>But then, Sherlock wakes up in a car several feet underground with an unconscious Lestrade in the backseat and approximately 12 hours of air left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Be Dead II - The Gravedigger

**Author's Note:**

> John and Sherlock needed some sort of highly emotional situation to man up and resolve the UST between them. I remembered an episode of the TV show “Bones” with an amazing kidnapping scenario.  
> So yeah, the plot is heavily inspired by “Aliens in a Spaceship”, Bones, 2x09, in case anything sounds familiar ;) Sherlock makes a good Bones, I have to admit!
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful [ merlenhiver](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merlenhiver)! All remaining mistakes are my own.

John welcomed case-free Saturday mornings. He could sleep in, not go to work and take as long as he wanted with reading the newspaper. 

Sherlock was conducting an experiment that involved a specific species of beetle in the living room, the mug of tea that John had put next to him already half empty. 

The domesticity of the situation made John smile. He might not have the entire package but he could live with this. 

Neither he nor Sherlock had mentioned the Moment, of course. They were still men and British above all, so talking about feelings wasn’t considered a real option. 

It didn’t stop John from thinking about what would have happened if he had closed the distance between them. If he had kissed Sherlock. 

He shook his head vehemently. As nice as case-free Saturdays were, John needed a distraction to keep his mind off Sherlock’s collar bone that was currently showing. 

“Sherlock, have you heard about those kidnappings?”

All John received was a non-committal sound as his flat mate injected the beetle with something John couldn’t (and wouldn’t) identify. 

“He’s already got a nickname. The Gravedigger.”

“How imaginative for a kidnapper who buries his victims alive.”

“Not interested then?”

Sherlock snorted, put down the syringe and turned to John. “Please. His motive is money, he abducts people where no security camera can pick it up, digs a grave, puts the victim in, sends one – and exactly one – ransom request and you either pay and receive the GPS coordinates and the people live or you don’t pay and the victims are never found. Straight-forward, effective, boring.”

“Aren’t you interested who this guy is? I mean, that he escaped capture for so long means he is not completely incompetent.”

“He’s hardly worth my time.”

“But beetles are?”

“These are not just any beetles, John, these are…” Sherlock started and John let his voice wash over him and smiled to himself. 

*

Greg had heard rumours that something big had gone down but he was so immersed in his own cases that he hadn’t found out what the fuzz was about. 

“Lestrade, do you have a moment?”

Greg looked up from the file he was going through and found DI Dimmock standing in his doorway. 

“Sure. What is it?”

“Have you heard?”

“Nothing specific.”

“It’s my case. We were called to a piece of wood just outside London. Apparently some kids had found a spaceship with aliens in it.”

Greg laughed. “Which kind? Klingons? Or Andorians?”

When Dimmock remained serious, the laughter caught in his throat. 

“It was two bodies. They’ve just been identified. Matthew and Ryan Kent. Kidnapped. October 31, 2008 and no one has seen them since.”

Greg strained his memory. Their names sounded familiar. 

“They were Gravedigger victims”, he said and Dimmock nodded. “Wait, why are you telling me this?”

The DI had a gnawing sense of why exactly his fellow officer was standing in his office.

“There’s a lot of pressure on this case. We could catch that bastard, if we play it right.”

“You want Sherlock.”

Dimmock shrugged, half embarrassed, half hopeful. 

Greg considered it. All he had to do was ask, Sherlock would say no anyway if he wanted to. 

“Alright, I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you. Have him come here as soon as possible.”

*

Sherlock was pointing out exactly how many laws of physics the stunt in the latest Bond movie on their agenda was breaking when his phone rang. 

“This is Holmes, Sherlock Holmes” he said and watched in delight how John burst out laughing. It was a very pleasant sight. 

“Oh, right, it’s Bond night, isn’t it?”

How did Lestrade know about- oh, right, John’s blog. Sherlock really had to take a stand on his censorship rights. 

“What is it, Detective Inspector; I was just taking apart a highly impossible stunt.”

“Yeah, sorry, but duty calls.”

“This better be more interesting than the teenage drama from last week.”

“We found two bodies in a capsule. They’ve been abducted by the Gravedigger four years ago.”

“So you already know the culprit. Glad to see that the Met-“

“Sherlock, they requested you. They believe that you can lead us to him. Make the kidnappings stop.”

Sherlock sighed. He wasn’t really interested but he and John had done nothing but watch movies and conduct experiments this past week. His brain needed the workout. 

“We’re on our way.”

“Really?”

“Lestrade, you owe me.”

Sherlock ended the call and found John looking at him questioningly. 

“Apparently the Gravedigger isn’t as good at hiding things as we thought. Two of his victims have been found dead after missing for four years. Come on, we’re going to the Yard.”

John looked far too excited for Sherlock’s liking. It was a boring kidnapper, after all. The look of anticipation on John’s face wasn’t called for. Although it looked quite good on him. 

Trying to clear it, Sherlock shook his head. Case. Now. Focus.

*

John could tell that Sherlock was annoyed by the nature of the case, but he was too thrilled to care. 

They would have a chance to catch a serial killer who had been at large for years. He could already picture his blog. What would he call it? Digging his own grave? Aliens in a spaceship? 

They met DI Dimmock, Lestrade and several other people at the Met. There was Peter Sanders, former police officer specializing in kidnappings whom Sherlock diagnosed with a drinking problem that Sanders didn’t even try to deny. Then there were Thomas Vega and Janine O’Connel, who had literally written the book on the Gravedigger. 

“We’re not going to help you write the sequel, Mr Vega”, Sherlock said with as much disdain John had ever heard him capable of. 

“Mr Holmes, I’ve seen what this bloke does to families. Dislike me all you want but I’ll help you anyway because I want to catch that bloody bastard.”

“Gents, please.” Lestrade opened the file on the desk and Dimmock took over to explain what they already knew, reading off the file most of the time.

“The body of Ryan Kent shows trauma to the legs, compound fractures, and his pelvis is broken in three places. Matthew Kent is virtually untouched. There was a lot of blood in the beer vat; it was probably Ryan who bled out. The boys were taken after a drinking party, presumably from a parking garage where the Gravedigger usually snatches his victims.”

“Mr Kent was given 24 hours to pay the ransom,” Sanders went on. “And I advised him not to pay. Unfortunately, the Kents listened to me and not to Mr Vega…and uh, now their sons are dead.”

The latter cleared his throat. “The Kent boys were the Gravedigger’s third and fourth victim of the six we know of. Altogether, four paid the ransom and lived.”

“And the other one that didn’t?” John asked though he feared he already knew the answer.

“Never found them”, Janine supplied. 

“How often have you dealt with the Gravedigger?” Sherlock looked straight at Vega. John could actually see him taking the man apart and wondered what Sherlock saw.

If Vega was unsettled by the scrutiny, he didn’t show it. “Five times in total. The Gravedigger is totally consistent. No one ever sees how the victim is taken. The ransom demand is made using a digitally altered voice and a time limit is given. There’s never a second call. As soon as the ransom is paid to an untraceable account in Bahrain, the Caribbean, etc., the GPS coordinates are provided, leading to the victim.”

“None of the surviving victims remembers anything before being taken?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing. Burn marks on the back of the neck suggest the use of a stun gun or cattle prod.” Janine looked revolted. 

“Yes, that will have an impact on short-term memory,” Sherlock filled in the blanks. “And of course none of the equipment the kidnapper uses can be traced, I take it?”

Vega nodded. “He gets everything from landfills or cash auctions.”

“No last chance to pay up?” John couldn’t help the hopeful tone in his voice. 

“Never.”

Sherlock snorted. “Why would he? Most kidnappers are caught because they start negotiating the ransom. The Gravedigger simply doesn’t play that game.”

John had an idea. “You said stun gun. Was there bone burn?”

Dimmock nodded and showed him the pictures. “300 degrees according to our forensics.”

“Does the same mark appear on Ryan?”

Dimmock shook his head. “Just the fractures. And, give me a moment,” the DI rummaged in the pile of documents and finally found what he was looking for. “The autopsy showed that Ryan Kent killed himself. Used a pen and punctured the carotid artery, which explains the blood in the vat.”

Sherlock looked up from the pictures with an utterly confused expression. “Why would he do that?” 

He glanced at John, who was overcome with a huge urge to hug Sherlock if the explanation didn’t present itself to him. 

“He did it to give his brother more air. That’s why the corpses were holding each other.”  
John nodded towards the picture. 

Something flickered across Sherlock’s features and John for once knew what was going through his head. If it had been Sherlock and Mycroft in that beer vat, would one of them have done the same?

In the blink of an eye, however, Sherlock’s expression changed. His eyes widened and he flipped through the documents frantically. 

“What is it?” Lestrade asked, intrigued. 

“How big was that vat?” 

Dimmock shoved a document at Sherlock, which the detective considered, then he mumbled something to himself, narrowed his eyes and let out a breath. 

John was able to recognize an epiphany by now and without surprise, Sherlock was off, talking at top speed, pacing around the small office.

“Of course, it was a mistake. In a vat that size, Matthew couldn’t have fractured his brother’s pelvis. The injuries are classic human vs. car. The Gravedigger only wanted to abduct one of the twins, Matthew. But Ryan surprised him, so he ran Ryan over with his car, drugged him to impair his memory and put him into the vat with his brother. Yet he failed to recalculate. Two adolescent males in a vat that size would use up all the air within 12 hours, not the 24 he had given their family to come up with the money.”

Everyone was silent. John was the first to catch himself. 

“So, even if the Kents had paid the ransom, their sons would have been dead by the time they got to them.” 

Sanders sighed. “Mr Kent will be happy when I tell him he didn’t actually kill his sons.” 

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Sherlock, can you catch this bloke?”

John smirked, just a little. Sherlock had been sucked in; he was in the game now, intrigued. The boring Gravedigger had made a mistake and who but the mighty Sherlock Holmes would be able to catch him? 

*

The next morning John’s neck was sore from reading every file on the Gravedigger and he was sure Sherlock hadn’t slept at all either after they had returned from investigating the crime scene. 

Sherlock had inspected every millimetre of that beer vat which had led to a few almost plausible ideas.

They were due to meet with Molly, Lestrade and Dimmock in the morgue that morning, since Sherlock had requested the bodies of the previous victims as well as their clothes.

John powered up his laptop to check the news and the weather but what he saw brought him to a sudden halt. 

“HOLMES HUNTS THE GRAVEDIGGER”, the headline read. 

Bloody hell. 

“Sherlock!” John shouted and his flat mate emerged from the bathroom, toothbrush in his mouth, dressing gown open, showing his torso right down to his hip bones. 

For a moment, John forgot what he wanted to say. 

“Have you suffered a heart attack or are you just fascinated by my dental hygiene?” Sherlock all but teased and John jerked himself back to reality. 

“No, Sherlock, look.” He tilted the laptop in Sherlock’s direction. “They ran the story. I thought Greg said he wanted to keep your involvement quiet?”

Sherlock groaned and tried to speak, then dashed into the bathroom to rinse his mouth before shouting across the flat. “Great idea, Lestrade, tell the kidnapper that we’re onto him!” 

Sherlock made an exasperated sound, dashed into his room and emerged fully clothed. 

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll stop by the Yard to make sure that the Detective Inspector has even one brain cell left!”

John stood warily. “Do I need to come with you or do you promise to behave?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “No need. I’ll make him take me to the crime scene again before we’re due at the morgue. I have a few more ideas.”

“Alright.” But John called Sherlock back before the door closed completely. 

“What?”

“Just, don’t be too hard on Greg? His job is tough enough as it is, dealing with you all the time.” 

Sherlock smirked and John sensed something was about to come. 

“Oh, no worries, Lestrade is not the one I’d like to be too hard on”, Sherlock said, winked, and left. 

John was speechless. Was he hallucinating or had Sherlock just flirted with him?

*

The detective was still sniggering uncharacteristically when he reached the Yard. He’d have to see how his new scheme would work. 

Preventing every date John had had in the past weeks from coming to a happy end, pun very much intended, hadn’t tipped John off yet so Sherlock had to be a bit more obvious, apparently. 

Shouting at Lestrade proved to be fun – why wasn’t he doing that more often? – and grudgingly, Lestrade accompanied Sherlock to the crime scene once more. 

But then the DI did nothing but watch Sherlock as he crawled around the beer vat. It was utterly distracting. 

“Lestrade, go to the police car, you’re annoying me.”

“Yes, your majesty”, the DI sighed but complied. 

Finally. Silence. 

The last thing Sherlock saw was a trace of blood on the floor before the world went black. 

*

Greg had already settled into the car when he remembered that he hadn’t told Sherlock that he only had half an hour for whatever it was the nutter was doing. 

He considered simply fetching him once the time was over but surely, Sherlock would complain and argue the entire way back if Greg was lucky enough to get him back into the car in the first place. 

So Greg reluctantly left the car and jogged back to the vat. 

Something wasn’t right. Sherlock was lying on the ground, unconscious. Greg’s hands flew to his gun as he called the detective’s name but the next thing he heard was an engine. 

He turned to where the noise came from – and was hit by a car. 

* 

When John reached the morgue, Dimmock was already there, chatting with Molly. 

“Sherlock and Lestrade not back yet?” John asked. “Sherlock wanted to take another look at the crime scene.”

“No, I was the first”, Dimmock said. 

“Anything new?” John turned to Molly. 

“Well, every piece of clothing shows traces of aluminium and sooty residue.” At John’s and Dimmock’s questioning looks, she elaborated. “That’s because the Gravedigger took his victims from underground garages.” 

“Yeah, without being caught on the cameras”, the DI grumbled. 

“Which means he knows about security systems. That can narrow down our suspect list.”

“Which we don’t have.”

“Give Sherlock a little time, he’ll figure this out.” As if cued to, John’s phone began to ring. “See, it’s probably him now, with some crazy deduction about the kidnapper…”

John accepted the call and was about to greet his flat mate with an innuendo of some sorts to pay him back, but the voice on the other end of the phone wasn’t Sherlock’s. 

“Sherlock Holmes and Gregory Lestrade have been buried alive. Wire transfer £5 million to the following Grand Cayman account or they will suffocate to death.” The voice gave him a number. By now, Molly and Dimmock were staring at him questioningly. “Upon receipt of the wire transfer, I will provide you with Holmes’ and Lestrade’s GPS Coordinates. This will be my last communication.”

John stared at the phone in disbelief. His stomach felt like he was digesting acid. He felt the sweat form on his forehead; his hand was beginning to shake. 

No. This was not happening. No. 

“John, what is it?” Molly’s voice seemed far away. “John?”

John swallowed and felt bile rise in his throat. “He’s got them.”

“What? Who? What are you talking about, Watson?” Dimmock turned him around. 

John finally looked up from the phone. 

“The Gravedigger took Sherlock and Greg.” 

*

Sherlock drifted into consciousness. He heard some sort of love song – radio, his brain supplied, bad reception. 

Since when was John listening to radio? Especially to love songs? 

Sherlock blinked several times until he could make sense of his surroundings. There was a steering wheel in front of him. He was in a car. It was dark except for the light from the radio. 

He reached above his head and switched on the interior light. He tried the door – nothing. It wouldn’t budge. 

Sherlock pushed the button for the electric window. It moved downwards but in a matter of seconds, dirt was pouring down on him. 

“No, no, no” he mumbled as he frantically pushed at the button to close the window. 

A groan emerged from behind. 

Sherlock turned and saw Lestrade lying in the backseat, slowly waking up. 

He scrambled over the front seat to get to the DI. 

“Lestrade, are you all right? Can you talk?” He put his hand on Lestrade’s leg but quickly pulled away when he felt something wet. 

A look at his fingers revealed blood. Lestrade’s legs weren’t looking much better, covered in gashes and red fluid. 

“What happened to your legs?”

“Where are we…?” It was nothing more than a whisper. 

“We’re buried alive. He must have got us”, Sherlock explained. 

“Who?” Lestrade was disoriented. Drugged, presumably. By the state of his leg, he had been hit by a car. So their kidnapper had only intended on taking him, not the officer, Sherlock’s mind analysed. 

“The Gravedigger.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened and he seemed a little more awake. 

*

John had allowed himself 30 seconds of panic. 

Then he had called Vega, Donovan and Anderson to meet them at the morgue and bring the files. 

Once they were all there, John re-played the message. 

“It will be his last communication too. He’s never varied”, Vega said, unhelpful. 

“We learn from the Kent case,” Dimmock threw in. “He’s got two of them; he cut the deadline in half.”

“That gives them ten hours.” John pulled out his phone again. 

“Who are you calling?” Molly. She looked as worried as John was feeling but he didn’t have time to become emotional. 

Sherlock’s life was at stake, as well as Greg’s. 

“I’m calling Mycroft. We need the money.” He felt every pair of eyes upon him as he pushed the call button. 

“Hello, Dr Watson”, he heard Anthea’s voice. 

“No time for pleasantries, I need to talk to Mycroft.”

“I’m sorry but he’s unavailable at the moment.”

“Then make him available.”

“I can’t.”

“Of course you can”, John’s voice was rising threateningly. “His brother is in trouble and needs his help. I’m sure he can make an exception.”

“I’m sorry but my explicit orders-“

“I don’t care; this is a matter of life and death!”

Silence on the other end. Then, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good. Be quick about it”, John hissed and thrust the phone back into his pocket. 

Molly looked terrified. 

“Alright, Sherlock’s brother seems to be unavailable but his assistant or whoever she is will contact him. Just in case, we need a plan B.”

“Come on”, Dimmock snorted, “he’s his brother, of course he’s going to help.”

John raised his eyebrows and the DI fell silent. “Is there any other way we can come up with £ 5 million?”

“The Yard can’t come up with the money on such short notice. You need to go through the proper channels and that’s going to take at least 24 hours-“

John groaned in frustration. 

“Alright, then we’ll keep on working the case. Find out where he took them and get them out.”

“You won’t find them-“ Vega started but John was in his space in a matter of seconds. 

“The Gravedigger is human and he makes mistakes. We have a chance.”

To John’s huge satisfaction, Vega swallowed and remained silent. 

*

Lestrade had passed out for a few minutes again. Sherlock used the silence to examine his leg more closely. He didn’t like what he found.

“What happened? Where are we?”

Sherlock looked up into Lestrade’s still foggy eyes. “Last thing I remember is driving to the crime scene.”

“What happened to my legs?” He blinked and shook his head. “Where are we?”

“Underground. Buried. In your police car. I have a burn.” He could feel it at the back of his neck.

“You were shouting at me because of the article…” The DI screwed his face up in concentration, trying to remember. 

“It has to be the Gravedigger. I think he ran you down with his car, and then pumped you full of drugs to ruin your short term memory – same as Ryan Kent.”

The last fog disappeared from Lestrade’s eyes, which widened. “How long have we been down here?”

“Two hours would be my assessment.”

“Okay, so this car is six… sixty cubic feet of air, it’s just twenty per cent oxygen – two people – my brain is not working…”

“The Gravedigger is very consistent. If we started with 12 hours of air, we’ll be unconscious in 10, counting from now. After that if,” Sherlock cleared his throat which had become a bit constricted, “if no one pays the ransom…”

“We’re dead”, the DI finished the sentence. 

All Sherlock could do was nod.

*

In the morgue, John had set up a timer that was counting down the hours of air left for Sherlock and Greg. 

10:03:04. John was refusing to think about what would happen after that. 

“How did the Gravedigger catch them together? It’s you who’s always following him around.” 

John fixed Donovan with his cruellest glare. “Sherlock wanted to go back to the crime scene after shouting at Greg for blabbing to the reporters.”

“Lestrade never told them anything! They saw the freak at the crime scene that was hardly a difficult deduction”, Anderson remarked and rolled his eyes. 

“Let’s go back there. Perhaps we can find something”, John barked and the rest followed him without hesitation. 

Even with police lights it took them twenty minutes to reach the place in the woods.

“Over here!” 

John ran towards Molly, who was pointing at a dark spot on the ground. 

“Whose blood is that?” Dimmock knelt down next to John and inspected the spot. 

“My guess is it’s Greg’s. The Gravedigger was after Sherlock. Greg interrupted the kidnapping, just like Ryan and Mathews. The Gravedigger must have run him over.”

“What now?” Molly’s voice was shaking. 

“We’ll treat it like a crime scene. Dimmock, Anderson, Donovan, look for tire tracks. Molly, you have to keep working the Kent case, get us anything you can find. I’ll call Mycroft again.”

With steady hands, John took out his phone once more.

*

Sherlock had searched every inch of the police car for supplies and had piled them up on the passenger seat.

“We have water, towels, a mini kit, ibuprofen, two cell phones but no batteries, a digital camera with a backup battery, a note book and a handful of pens.”

“That one’s a laser pointer…” Lestrade indicated.

Sherlock had also discovered a pouch in the glove compartment and raised an eyebrow at Lestrade.

“I never took you for the perfume type.”

“It’s a present for my ex-wife. It’s her birthday this weekend.“

“And you’re hoping to get on her good side again? Lestrade, she will always cheat on you again, listen to me for once.”

His advice, however, went unheard as Lestrade’s features contorted in pain. 

“Something – something – my leg.”

Sherlock snatched the ibuprofen and a bottle of water and handed them to the injured DI. “Here.” 

Lestrade swallowed the pill but the look of pain remained strong as ever. It only assured Sherlock of his assessment of the situation. “Lestrade, I’m worried you have compartment syndrome.”

“Is that terminal? I mean within the next few hours?” the officer joked but any effect was diminished by the hiss that followed.

“No.”

“But…?”

“It’s going to get painful.”

“More painful than now?”

“The kind of slip-into-shock-and-die painful.”

Lestrade remained silent for a moment and then shook himself. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about that.”

“Actually, there is.” Sherlock fixed him with what he hoped to be a neutral stare.

The DI seemed highly troubled. “I know this face. I won’t like this one bit, will I?”

Sherlock found it best not to lie when they were a few feet under. 

*

John looked at the timer. 08:22:14. He resumed his pacing and dialled Mycroft’s number again, to see whether Anthea had made progress.

*

While Sherlock was spreading a towel on the back seat, Lestrade stretched forward and retrieved the notebook as well as a pen from the car’s front. 

He took a piece of paper, contemplated it for a second and wrote a few sentences. Once finished, he put his equipment back where it had been, folded the sheet and put it in his pocket. 

“Alright. I’m ready.”

“Was that a note to your ex-wife?” Sherlock didn’t sneer. It was only logical that the DI would consider writing a note at this moment. 

Lestrade nodded. “Just in case that whatever you’re doing sends me into shock. I mean, I might die. On the other hand, me not breathing doubles your survival time.”

Sherlock looked up at that. “I’m not interested in surviving that way.”

Lestrade opened his mouth but remained silent. Sherlock’s sentiment seemed to have rendered the man speechless for now. 

Sherlock took the opportunity to explain the procedure. “I’m going to make a long incision in the fascia to release the pressure inside.”

“Where?”

“In your leg,” Sherlock said with an eye-roll that served as the implied “you idiot”. 

“And how long is a long incision? Wait, you know what? Don’t tell me.”

“It’s best if I do it very fast and without empathy.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Sherlock smiled curtly. True, he would. 

“Sherlock?” Lestrade was worried, anyone would have seen that. “Call me Greg, alright? If I survive this,” his eyes glanced at the leg, “and if we survive this”, his eyes indicated the interior of the car, “don’t stop either.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re afraid of a possible imminent death.”

“Might be. Still. I’d like that.”

The logical part of Sherlock’s brain – which according to some people constituted most of it anyway – pointed out that Lestrade’s actions were due to the trauma they were currently undergoing but this once, he allowed his emotions to win the argument. 

“Alright. Greg it is.”

Lestrade – no, Greg – smiled. His smile wavered when Sherlock undid his belt. 

“Sherlock, what-?”

“You need something to bite on while I make the cut. Leather is the best option we have.”

He handed the belt to Lestrade, who eyed it carefully. 

“I’m sure it cost more than half my wardrobe. Are you sure I should bite on it?”

“Please, I have three identical belts since my aunt can’t remember what she gave me the previous Christmas, I will hardly miss it.”

Lestr- Greg shrugged and put the belt between his teeth. 

“Hang on to something and don’t fight passing out.” Lestrade shifted and nodded. “Ready? Oh, wait…” Sherlock had just noticed a piece of plastic in Greg’s leg wound. 

“What is that?”

“Evidence of what happened to you. Let’s – let’s worry about it later.” Sherlock pulled the notebook from the front seat and placed the evidence between the last two pages. 

Greg restored the belt to its place and gripped the driver’s seat and the bench to his right as tightly as possible. 

He and Sherlock shared one last look and Sherlock made the incision. He didn’t pretend not to wince when Greg screamed in agony until unconsciousness enveloped him. 

*

John had to use all his self-control not to end the call by flinging the phone across the room. 

The clock read 05:09:34. 

“Have you reached Mycroft yet?” Molly hurried over when she saw he had finished the conversation.

“No. There’s no way to get to him”, John replied through gritted teeth. “His assistant says he is in a top secret meeting and she tried everything in her power but there is no reaching him.”

“So we can’t get the ransom.” Molly’s eyes were wide, horrified, as the reality of the situation struck. 

“I’d say we need more time, but the Gravedigger doesn’t give us that – or proof of life.”

Molly casually wiped the tears from her eyes. John pretended not to notice. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that he took Sherlock when he did.”

“Yes, I have the same feeling.”

John couldn’t contain it any longer – he smashed his hand against the mirrored wall, which shattered where his fist had connected with the surface.

*

A loud noise like the honking of a car shook Greg out of sleep. It took him a second to see Sherlock in the driver’s seat, hands working the wires. 

“How long was I unconscious?”

Sherlock turned and the relieved smile that was directed at Greg didn’t really appease him. It said “Good, I didn’t kill you” far too clearly.

“For a while. How’s your leg?”

“Better. A lot better. What are you doing?”

“Hotwiring the phone to the horn so we can send a message.”

“From underground?”

“We have radio reception. The only problem is that a direct current 12 volt will burn out the circuits in a 4.2 volt cell phone in a microsecond. So I’ll jury-rig a resistor.”

Even without the leg wound and above ground without the threat of imminent death hanging over him, Greg would never have been able to follow that. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sherlock, but it sounds smart.”

“Might work long enough to send a very short text message. John can trace it to a cell phone relay tower.”

“What message should we send? Goodbye? It was a pleasure?”

“Don’t be dramatic. We can send a clue as to where we are.”

“We’re underground. We’re surrounded by dirt.”

“I don’t like the word dirt.”

Of course Sherlock wouldn’t. Greg withstood the urge to roll his eyes.

“What would you call it then?”

Sherlock put down the wires and swooped up a handful of – in Greg’s vocabulary- dirt from next to the front seat. Had Sherlock tried to open the window at some point?

The man in question, meanwhile, was examining the contents of his hand. “Ash. Hints of nitrogen and sulphur.” Then Sherlock actually spit on the dirt. And John wondered why some people called him crazy.

“So where are we?”

“In a former coal mine.”

Sherlock could tell that from a few ounces of dirt? It was impressive – but then Greg remembered how many coal mines there were in the UK. “We need more than that.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. He looked like he did when he was taking apart a crime scene, finding every last trace of evidence, every single clue, however unimportant. 

“The laser – and we need benzophenone.” 

“Huh?”

“Some soaps and plastic packaging, sunscreen – we don’t have any sunscreen.” Sherlock’s eyes widened. Greg knew the look – it meant good news. It meant Sherlock had figured it out. “The perfume.”

“Well, I can always buy another one.”

“Greg, I will split the cost when we get out of here.”

That actually made the DI chuckle. He would love to see Sherlock’s face when Greg turned up in Baker Street to demand his half of the £50 perfume. 

Sherlock undid the lid, poured the liquid onto his palm, pointed the laser at it and then took a closer look with the magnifying glass.

When he looked up, he was smiling. It was the first time that Greg had ever seen the detective smile like that when not in the presence of John. 

“I know where we are.”

*

After Molly had patched his hand up, an idea had struck. He went looking for Vega and found him watching Dimmock, Donovan and Anderson work. 

“We need to contact the Gravedigger”, John opened without further ado. “Mycroft is basically MIA and we have no money. We need more time.”

”There’s no negotiating with The Gravedigger”, was Vega’s simple reply. As if he didn’t care.

“You’ve been through this what – ah – five times with this bloke.”

“Exactly. So I know him, and he does not negotiate.”

“Oh, what? No chat room action with him?” John’s voice sounded like ice and he was very much aware of the fact. He didn’t care. He wanted to scare Vega, show him his anger.

“Are you barking? I hate the son of a bitch.”

“Why? He’s made you rich.”

“You know what? You just need to deal with the facts. If you can’t put the ransom together in the time he gave you, your partner is dead.”

John saw red. With one swift motion he pinned Vega to the nearest wall, well aware that he was hurting the expert rather badly. 

John held Vega at his level and talked right into his ear.

“Here’s the deal, all right. You have a very symbiotic relationship with this bloke – you benefit from each other. So know this. When that deadline comes around, and Sherlock is still underground – I will end you. I’ve killed better people than you in Afghanistan, don’t doubt for a second that I won’t, do you understand?” John shoved him into the wall and took a step back. Vega slumped to the ground, turning so his back rested against the wall. 

John pointed to the timer. “Three hours to live.” He grabbed Vega at his collar and yanked him upright. ”Better hurry.”

The man scattered out of the door. When John turned again, he found all officers as well as Molly staring at him as if they’d never seen him before. 

John didn’t care. Three hours. 

*

Greg had taken the piece of plastic from the note book. Sherlock was still working the wires.

“I think it’s a bumper sticker.”

Sherlock paused and craned his neck. “You mean something like ‘If you can read this, you’re too close.’?”

“Not sure. Could also me a prepaid toll road pass.” Only then did it hit Greg. “Someone ran me down with a car.”

“We knew that already,” Sherlock drawled. 

“Sure, but now we’ve proven it I find that I’m really angry.”

Sherlock seemed to have finished. He picked up the phone which was connected to the car.

“Four to six seconds to enter a message and hit speed dial. I’ve figured out a text message using sixteen key strikes.”

“How’s your text messaging?”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “What’s the expression? Typing faster than my shadow?”

“Actually, it’s shooting… But I see John has been teaching you pop culture.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched. Damn. Greg should have just kept his mouth shut. “Don’t remind me. One more Bond movie and I will strangle him.”

“Get real, Sherlock, I know you love it.” Sherlock stayed quiet, his face set to his default expressionless expression. 

The DI sighed heavily. “We’re almost dead, Sherlock, you know you can show emotions now. There’s no law against it in a situation like this, not even in your special universe.”

“What are you talking about, we still have two and a half hours. We’re not dying.” 

Greg had seen it, he had caught a glimpse of true emotion before Sherlock had brushed it off like he did with everything. 

Greg wanted to call him on the look, wanted to make Sherlock admit that he was scared beyond anything else that he would die for real and never see John again. 

Instead, Greg went with “Alright. Send that message already.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply, pressed his feet against the horn and simultaneously hit the phone’s keyboard incredibly fast.

A flash – the phone had short circuited. 

“Did it work?”

“I think it did…”

They both nodded. It had to have worked.

*

The beep almost made John jump. _Please, let it be Mycroft_ , he thought feverishly. 

When the ID actually read Sherlock, John had to close and open his eyes three times before he could be sure it wasn’t a hallucination.

He put the message onto the screen instead of the timer. 

6 7 16 M1.4 wall.

Three agents and one pathologist remained silent. 

“Does it mean anything to anybody?” John asked. 

“They’re getting low on oxygen.” 

“Very helpful, Anderson.”

“Hypoxia leads to mental confusion”, Molly said in all but a whisper.

“This is Sherlock! It means something.”

“Did you try just dialling the number?”

“I tried all the idiotic, normal stuff. That’s why I’m here talking to you. Think!”

“They’re not soldiers, Watson”, Dimmock interjected. 

“We’re running out of time!”

“Minor correction”, Molly quipped. “Sherlock and Lestrade run out of air in”, she swallowed, “four seconds.” 

John looked at the clock in horror as it hit zero. They were out of time. Sherlock was out of oxygen.

*

With a satisfying _shhhhh_ , the air escaped the spare tire. 

Sherlock had spent the past 30 minutes working it free through the back seat and had managed puncturing it just in time. 

Greg sank against the back seat with a deep breath. They were looking at each other across the hole in the seat, smiling like lunatics.

“How much extra time?” Greg asked after a minute.

“A little. There’s no way to reach the other four. Is there anything else?”

“If the ransom was paid, we’d be out by now. Why prolong the inevitable?” 

No, detective, none of that. Sherlock was currently pushing every thought of that kind way out of his mind. 

“John will find us.”

“You have a lot of faith in John.”

“No. Faith is an irrational belief in something that is logically impossible. I’ve seen what John can do. It’s not faith. He cleared my name. Took down the snipers. He will work out the message and he will find us.”

“No offense – and I’m not just saying this because you filleted me with a knife, alright? We are out of air. We don’t know if our message got out, much less if anyone understood it and we are buried underground. What you have is faith.”

Sherlock strained his mind to come up with a counter-argument but the lack of oxygen must be getting to him. “We shouldn’t talk right now – to conserve air.”

“Yeah, sure, as soon as we get to the hot topics, you’re all for silence.”

“Stop it, I need to think.”

“About what?” 

“Just shut up!” Sherlock hadn’t meant to scream but in the end he was glad since the DI actually went mute, stunned into silence.

Sherlock knew he was missing something. There it was, nagging at the corners of his brain and he was unable to access it because his thought kept circling around John. 

John, who’d have to bury him again, for a second time, only now without the magic trick. Sherlock had heard stories about John’s behaviour in the four weeks following the Fall. Going through that a second time would kill him. 

Sherlock couldn’t let that happen. There were so many things he needed to say, things he should have said weeks ago, but he was operating under the impression that they had all the time in the world and now it had all been taken away from him- 

Stop it. Focus. Mind palace. Now.

With a huge effort Sherlock stopped the painful emotions and was able to just think.

His sudden movement made Greg jump. “I need the camera batteries and the preservative powder from your kit.”

“What, why?”

“Soda ash and lithium. I’ll make a carbon dioxide scrubber. If I can perform surgery out of thin air, then I can pull a little thin air out of thin air.”

Sherlock grabbed the camera and the kit, looked around and found the ash tray.

“You’re going to produce oxygen?” Greg seemed carefully optimistic.

“That’s what I just said.”

*

John was pacing. 

“Okay”, Dimmock said. “Molly figured out what kind of stun gun the Gravedigger uses and how it’s modified. Thanks to Anderson, we know that the Gravedigger has a customized aluminium casing in the back of his vehicle-“

John growled. “We have about a hundred officers working that angle. What does this mean, right here!” He tapped the monitor for good measure. He needed to hit something. “What does that mean?”

“You’re forgetting something”, Anderson cut in. “Lestrade and the freak are out of air.”

It was the word “freak” that set him off. 

John had Anderson pinned against an autopsy table within seconds. No one moved to stop him. 

“Great deduction, Anderson. You want to give up then? This is Sherlock we’re talking about, and Greg. You really think they didn’t find a way to extend their air supply? Bloody hell, they found a way to send us a message to ask us for help and you want to give up because of the math.” 

He shoved off Anderson who winced as he straightened himself. Molly took a hesitant step towards him but John’s glare didn’t stop her from speaking up. 

“John, we know how you must feel but-“

“Oh, do you? I don’t think so, Molly!” John resumed his pacing, finger raised against Molly in accusation. “I watched him die, Molly, and I didn’t know that he wasn’t actually dead. I mourned, I grieved while you pretended to also have lost a friend. And then I got him back and I vowed to never, ever lose Sherlock again… And I won’t, do you hear me? And if anyone of you even so much as implies that it’s pointless I swear I will draw my gun and pull the trigger. I assure you, bullet wounds are quite painful, especially the non-fatal ones.”

No one dared to say a word.

*

Greg watched Sherlock scrape out the lithium from inside the battery into an ashtray in amazement.

“Soda ash. Lithium reacts to high concentrations of carbon dioxide.” Sherlock dipped the water bottle and poured the liquid into the tray. “Produces oxygen.”

The mixture started to foam. Greg could breathe again and both he and Sherlock laughed in relief.

Then Greg’s eyes fell onto the passenger seat. Why hadn’t he thought of this earlier?

“That gives us just long enough.”

“Long enough for what?” Sherlock seemed intrigued.

“I have an idea of my own. Which will probably kill us.” At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, he added, “Airbags.”

“They aren’t actually bags of air.”

“I’m not looking to extend our time here. I’m looking to blow our way out.”

“Using the explosives from the air bags?” Sherlock looked back and forth between the airbags and Greg. “That could definitely kill us.”

“So will doing nothing.”

They held eye contact for a long moment, Sherlock’s face blank, but then he nodded almost imperceptibly.

Greg handed him the note book. “Anyone you want to say goodbye to?”

Sherlock took the piece of paper hesitantly. He looked at it as though it was going to bite him. He picked up a pen, held it over the surface, sighed. 

“What do I say?”

Greg didn’t have to ask who Sherlock was talking about.

“What is the one thing you’ve always wanted to say to him but never did?”

Sherlock swallowed and his expression remained blank – yet only for a second. Then Sherlock’s mask slipped away completely. Greg had never seen the man so vulnerable, so transparent, emotion deeply etched into his features. It was heart-breaking. Greg could easily tell what Sherlock wanted to say.

He felt a tear in his eye and desperately blinked it away. 

“Then you should write that”, he said when he trusted his voice again. 

Sherlock looked at the paper again. 

“But it won’t mean anything. I’ll be dead and he will...” Greg saw actual tears glisten in Sherlock’s eyes. The man looked lost and hurt and Greg felt helpless. 

“Sherlock, it will mean the world to him. For god’s sake! I’ve seen you two dance around each other ever since your resurrection! John has been worrying himself sick about this, so certain that his feelings were one-sided. The least you can do is tell him the truth. Give him some closure.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment.  
Then he began to write.

*

“It’s not a numerical alphabetical code or an equation.” Molly shook her head.

“It’s not GPS coordinates or indications of topography.”

“Great. Then what is it?”

Donovan sighed. “This is a message from one of them to one of us. Specific. Focused. Who was it meant to get to?”

Every pair of eyes fixed on John. 

“Well, me. But the numbers don’t make any sense.”

“What about ‘wall’?”

“I’m thinking, god damn it!”

Suddenly, the door opened and revealed Vega and Janine.

”Dr Watson. Janine used all her contacts to get me on all the local news shows. Now, I explained that we needed more time. I asked him to call. I’m sorry, but he’s completely consistent.”

John growled and made to attack – but he stopped dead before he reached the man and the journalist. 

Wall. Sherlock’s wall. He had been too focused on the smiley and the gun incident that he had forgotten Sherlock’s room. 

“Wall”, John said and turned. “Sherlock has the periodic table pinned to his wall. That are what the numbers mean.”

Molly whipped around. “Six, seventeen, sixteen. Carbon, Nitrogen and Sulphur on the periodic table of elements. They are buried in coal rich soil.”

She darted to the computers. 

“We have to narrow it down, Molly!”

“I’m trying, give me a minute…” She pulled up a map. “Erm, mineral components of coal are all the same. It’s the organic components that provide a unique fingerprint.” She closed her eyes, brows drawn together in concentration. “Th-They are called mascerals. They fluoresce at different levels. A reflectance of 1.4 is quite rare – suggesting a high concentration of inertinite.”

“Molly, tell me what that means.”

The woman let out a burst of hysterical laughter and pointed at the map of the city of London. “I know where they are.”

John stood there, dumbstruck. “Your cousin’s thesis on coal mining in England. Which you proof-read.”

“Yes, I told you about that.”

“And I told Sherlock.” Like a flood, the anxiety returned and John stormed towards the door. 

“Let’s go!” he shouted over his shoulder. 

* 

Greg had, with Sherlock’s help, set up everything necessary to induce the explosion. 

Sherlock knew there was a reason why he had stuck with Lestrade for so long. The DI was much smarter than Sherlock usually gave him credit for.

“I’m not really an explosives expert”, Greg cautioned, “but the dash might shape the charge enough to blow out the windshield. If we’re less than four feet beneath the surface, this charge could blow us to freedom.”

“And if we’re buried more than four feet deep the concussion will turn our brains into jam”, Sherlock finished the thought for him. He chuckled. “Well, then I can follow my brother into politics. He’ll be delighted.”

This earned him a small smile from the DI. 

“We should get as far away from the explosion as possible. Come, join me in the back.” 

For once, Sherlock followed his order.

* 

John must have broken every traffic regulation that ever existed, but twenty minutes later they were standing on top of a hill, a wide area stretched out below. 

John scanned the perimeter, begging for a sign, just one clue as to where the Gravedigger had buried Sherlock and Greg. 

His heart was beating loudly in his ears; his breath came in short gasps. He couldn’t think straight, all he could think was _Don’t be dead, don’t be dead_ , over and over and over like a mantra that failed to soothe him. 

“Come on, they have to be here. Just look for anything – tire tracks, recent digging, mounds, depressions, anything!”

But with every passing second the panic rose higher in his chest.

*

Greg’s hand was clutching the off-set mechanism. “Ready?”

“I’ve already died once. I should ask you this question.” Sherlock forced his voice to sound as neutral as possible. 

In truth he wondered whether Greg could hear his heart beating, too. 

“I’m not the one with a loved one waiting on the surface.” The DI looked half-bitter, half-rueful. 

Sherlock bit his lip. His eyes were burning and he forced the tears away. They weren’t helping, no tear would change the outcome of this. 

Sherlock let out another, steadying breath, then nodded. “I’m ready.”

Greg swallowed. “Sherlock, it’s been a privilege.”

“Likewise.” 

Sherlock considered saying more but everything sounded like platitudes. So he held out his hand instead but Greg didn’t take it – he leaped forward and pulled Sherlock into a full hug. 

Sherlock let him.

*

John felt it. He knew the signs of a nervous breakdown. 

There was nothing beneath him. No clue. 

*

Greg released him gently, then, without another word, took the wires, glanced at Sherlock once more, and connected them. 

*

_Bang._

John’s eyes leaped to the explosion like the eyes of a drowning man to the light of the surface. 

John’s legs were moving, running down the hill to the origin of the explosion. He’d never run faster in his life. 

_Don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead_

He reached the spot and fell to his knees, started digging, shovelling dirt aside, feeling for something, anything. 

A hand. 

He registered the others next to him, more hands digging, and they pulled and pulled until they saw Greg’s grey hair, colour dulled by the dirt. 

He coughed, gulped in the air, opened his eyes and met John’s. 

It was all he needed. He pushed his hands into the dirt again, hoping against hope. 

Greg was alive and breathing, Sherlock had to be, too, he couldn’t be dead- 

His hands closed around a wrist. 

His heart stopped for a second and then resumed its pulsing as John shoved more dirt aside and pulled. He barely realized who was helping him, and then, a familiar figure emerged, black hair and features covered in dirt and dust. 

With a burst of energy, John pulled Sherlock out of the ground and onto his back. 

John shook him, hard. “Sherlock, come on!”

Sherlock didn’t react for another second, then he coughed violently, wiped the dirt from his eyes and opened them. 

His blue eyes found John’s and it hit him like the first breath hits a drowning man: Sherlock was alive. 

It was instinct, there was no rational though involved, his body, his subconscious, everything moved of its own volition. 

John slung his right hand around Sherlock’s neck, tilted his head and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. 

The moment went on forever. Sherlock’s hands cupped John’s face and John felt Sherlock breathe, alive, well, there. 

They pulled apart only long enough for Sherlock to put his arms around John and hold on so tight it almost hurt and buried his head in John’s neck. 

John leaned into the warm body, eyes closed, steadying his breathing and not caring at all about the tears that were wetting his cheeks. 

*

Sherlock had lost any sense of time. He was alive and in John’s firm grip, not letting go. He felt safe, home. 

An agonized scream brought them both back to the present, yet they refused to part. John held onto Sherlock, arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him as close to him as possible, while John looked around to Greg. 

The DI was covered in dust and dirt, the makeshift bandages in his leg soaked in blood. 

“We’ll give you something for the pain”, the paramedic said - when had the ambulance arrived?

Sherlock took in his surroundings. It was a coal mine, buzzing with people. He saw Donovan, Anderson and Dimmock crouching next to Greg, and then he saw Molly standing a few feet away, smiling and crying simultaneously. 

Sherlock smiled back and she burst into tears once more. 

Then he finally looked back at John. 

What did one say in a situation like this? His flat mate – or did he dare say partner? – was at an equal loss. 

A medic put them out of their misery. “Sir, please, I have to check Mr Holmes.”

John glanced at Sherlock. He seemed about to object. 

“It’s okay”, Sherlock soothed and stroked John’s cheek with his hand. 

John took his hand, squeezed it and released Sherlock from his grasp and with the paramedic’s help guided him onto the gurney. 

*

John left Sherlock in the medic’s care and wandered over to Molly, who was watching from a distance. 

He couldn’t help grinning foolishly. Sherlock was alive. They had kissed. Sherlock had caressed his cheek. 

This wasn’t one-sided. 

Molly giggled at him. “You look like a rom-com character.” 

“I can live with that right now.” 

“I believe you.”

John sighed. “Listen, Molly, I know I was harsh today-“

“No, John, you don’t need to apologize. I understand. And besides, if you hadn’t shouted that much, we probably wouldn’t have found this place in time.”

John nodded, then went over to Greg who was lying on another gurney. His leg looked awful. Had Sherlock seriously treated compartment syndrome in a buried police car?

“Hi”, he said and the DI looked up. 

“Ah, John. I’ve got something for your blog!” Morphine must be wonderful, John mused. “Your man over there cut me open in the back of that car. Then he vandalized the back seat to get to the spare tire and then he used batteries and water to make oxygen. Sherlock is brilliant.”

John laughed, perhaps a little shrilly, but he couldn’t help it. 

“I keep telling you all but you never listen.”

“Yeah, sorry. But the explosion was my idea, you know.”

John put a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “Great. Without the bust it would have taken us too long to locate you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d have found us. You’re John, after all.”

“You and Sherlock had a lot of bonding time down there, didn’t you?” John really needed Sherlock to tell him all about the time they spent buried. 

“Sure. Oh, we can toss our notes now.”

“Notes?”

“Yeah, we wrote our good-byes. Good that they’re redundant now.”

John sighed and patted Greg on the back once more. “I’ll visit you in the hospital.”

“Ta!” 

John turned and almost collided with the medic that had taken care of Sherlock. 

“Dr Watson? We’re ready to transport Mr Holmes to the hospital. He requested your presence.”

John smiled and followed the man back to Sherlock, who apparently had also received a dosage of morphine. 

They shared a smile but John still said nothing as he followed Sherlock into the ambulance. 

The ride took longer than the chase there had taken, but John didn’t mind. 

He held onto Sherlock’s hand as the paramedics checked Sherlock’s vitals and hung an IV. 

“I knew you’d find me.” 

John let out a deep breath. “I wasn’t so sure in the end.” 

“But you did.”

“Good thing that you still have that poster.”

“It’s very practical.”

“For a man who knows the periodic table by heart?”

Sherlock chuckled then his face was serious once more. He released John’s hand and reached into his shirt pocket. 

He offered the piece of paper to John. 

“There’s no need, Sherlock. You’re alive.”

The man shook his head. “I want you to read it.” 

John took it and put it in his jacket pocket. “Later. I promise. Now relax.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand, smiled and nodded. He was asleep seconds later. 

* 

Sherlock was still sleeping peacefully when John was allowed into his room at Bart’s. Sherlock’s clothes were gone and he was clad in a hospital gown, IV in his hand. 

John should fetch Sherlock some clothes, he thought, but moving didn’t appeal to him at the moment. 

The door creaked open. 

John heard the tap of the umbrella but refused to acknowledge Mycroft’s presence. 

“I don’t know what to say.”

“How about you explain why I couldn’t reach you the one time we could have actually used your help?”

Mycroft’s eyes were fixed on his shoes as though they were the most fascinating thing in the world. 

“It was a top secret conference. There was a situation. Life and death, only on a larger scale.”

John barked out a laugh. “Sure.”

“John, you have to understand that, had I known, I would have left immediately.”

“But there was no way to reach you, was there?” He glared for good measure. If he weren’t so tired he’d toss Mycroft from the room. “We could have saved him a lot earlier if it weren’t for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to.”

The older Holmes fell silent for a while. 

“Is there anything I can do?”

John was about to decline before he remembered. “A few clothes would be appreciated. For me as well.”

“Alright.”

Mycroft nodded, glanced at his brother once more, then left. 

John had expected more anger to flood him once Mycroft had gone but it seemed his body couldn’t muster the energy. 

He shifted in his chair in a vain attempt to make himself more comfortable. Something rustled in his jacket pocket. 

The note. 

Carefully, John unfolded the paper. Sherlock had wanted him to read it. Probably to spare himself from talking about his feelings. It made John chuckle. Only Sherlock. 

The note was short, John hadn’t expected an essay, but it wasn’t Sherlock’s neat handwriting. His hands must have been shaking.

_Dear John,_  
there’s so much I want to say to you but words seem to fail me.  
I have a confession to make. I manipulated your dates. It was selfish of me but I couldn’t bear the thought of you with someone else.  
I love you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me and the best man I’ve ever known. I am so sorry for all the grief I caused you.  
I hope you find happiness – you deserve it, Dr Watson.  
Truly yours,  
Sherlock 

John let the tears fall. This was everything he could have hoped for and more. This was happiness. 

He rose from the chair, folded the note carefully and crossed the hospital room until he stood next to Sherlock’s sleeping form. 

He pressed a feathery kiss on Sherlock’s lips. 

“I love you, too, Sherlock.” 

 

END OF PART II

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who followed this until the end :) Feel free to give kudos, bookmark this or comment, every kind of feedback is welcome!
> 
> I should mention that I almost wrote this with Sherlock and John ending up together in the car. In the end, I opted for BAMF!John, though I might still be writing an alternate version with Lestrade and Mycroft teaming up to safe John and Sherlock. If inspiration strikes…
> 
> Oh, and for the sake of the story I had to make up a coal mine near London. I’m pretty sure there is none, please forgive me for that!


End file.
